Greatwater Lake Silly Boy!

sorry for the wait!

Hackles bristled upon the ghost’s spine, pin-pricks of paranoia upsetting a bone-white pelage. Perturbed eyes would shift, dance along the fringes of umbra in their disquietude, fitful; afeared, and the silencer savoured it. His tongue fed on unrest, allured to the graves of joy and deposits of dread. Spectre, soldier of dead, he lingered and prowled.

Until a voice called to him from the umbrage, the murk of night. And a fleeting laugh, thunderous in timbre, fled his iron throat, cast still in shadow. He'd been detected.

“But that spoils the fun, does it not?”